'You have made the dead
The mighty, the victorious.'
AT nightfall Robert brought Vaclav home to his father; but he begged Hubert to remain until his return. When he came back he said to him, ‘Let me look to your arm, sir. It would go ill with us poor folk if we had to run to the barber every time we got a sprain or a bruise. We must needs learn to help ourselves, and one another. And I think we mend as quickly as our betters.'
Hubert consented; he probably would have consented that night to anything proposed by Robert. He allowed his arm, by this time much swollen, to be bathed with some cooling lotion of which Nänchen’s mother knew the secret. For a while, indeed, he remained quite passive in the hands of Robert, who waited on and tended him with a zeal and carefulness which was a welcome relief to his own sore heart, while it greatly touched his patient. ‘Your hand is as gentle as a woman's,' said Hubert. ‘Not,' he added rather sadly, ‘that I speak from experience, for woman's care have I never known since I was five years old.' Somehow, the new influence that had come into his life was beginning to soften his whole nature.
‘Ah, Master Hubert,' said Robert, with quickly-falling tears, ‘you know where I learned this gentleness, and whom I served when he lay ill in yonder prison. God knows how oft since then I called His ways in question, wondering why He did not take him home in peace out of their cruel hands. But He knew best. He had more work yet for His servant to do for Him. Now, I can say truly He hath done all things well.'
Then he sat down beside the settle upon which Hubert lay, and they talked together. Through the long night that followed neither thought of sleep. Out of his full heart Robert told the story of those days in the Dominican House; how the patience, gentleness, and holiness of his captive had first gained his wondering admiration, and prepared his heart for the teaching that had changed all his life. Hubert was eager to know what that teaching was. Robert not only told him many of the words which had been stored lovingly in his memory, but brought out for him from its safe hiding-place the simple tract upon the Lord's Prayer, which, like that upon Marriage, had been written expressly for himself.
Neither in the oral nor in the written teaching was there anything positively opposed to the creed of his day. Probably Hubert might have heard before, from the lips of the chancellor, most of the great truths which that night came to his soul for the, first time in power and in majesty, as if spoken by a voice from heaven. Nay, were they not almost literally spoken so?
They were very old and very simple truths. Clearly and strongly was the love of the Divine Father set forth, and this not for great saints alone (as Hubert used to think), but for the humblest and lowliest of His creatures. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven,' so wrote John Huss; ‘Our Father, powerful in might, who art our Creator; Our Father, sweet in loving; Our Father, rich in inheritance; Our Father, merciful in redemption; Our Father, able to protect; Our Father, always ready to listen! See what manner of Father is ours, who is in heaven!’
‘And see, moreover,' said Robert, as he looked up from the page, ‘what manner of Father and of Friend was with him, to sustain and strengthen him through those eight long months in the lonely dungeon.'
‘Ay, well for him,' said Hubert. ‘But for us, who have all our sins upon us, we must fear and tremble before the great and dreadful Lord God.'
‘No, Master Hubert, for God is reconciled to us, and forgives us our sins, for the Lord Jesus Christ's sake, if only we believe in Him and follow Him.'
“My Lord Jesus Christ," that was what he said,' mused Hubert. ‘And Christ stood by him all the time.'
‘Oh, sir, he loved Him so! That love of Christ was his very life. I wish I could tell you how he used to speak of Him, but no—I cannot—I cannot, the words go from me. And to think they are all lost now, those beautiful words! Stay, though: Master Petr wrote out something for me in German one day, out of one of his books. It is like his talk, as the dried roses Nänchen wore at our wedding were like the fresh summer blossoms. Here it is. “Therefore after (Christ) let us go, to Him let us listen, and in Him let us place faith, hope, love, and all good works; on Him, as into a mirror, let us gaze, and to Him let us approach with all our might. And let us hear in that He saith, I am the way, the truth, and the life,'—the way in example, wherein if a man goes he errs not; the truth in promise, for what He hath promised that He will fulfill; and the life in recompense, for He will give Himself to be enjoyed in everlasting bliss. He is also the way, because He leads to salvation; He is the truth, because He shines in the understanding of the faithful; and He is the life everlasting, in which all the elect will live in bliss forever. To that life and by that way and truth I desire to go myself, and to draw others." '
‘Surely God hath given him the desire of his heart,' said Hubert. ‘God grant it unto me to follow him to that life, and by that way and truth! '
‘And to me also,' Robert answered. ‘He used to say that he wanted us “so to know the most precious Savior as to love Him with the whole heart, and our neighbor as ourselves." ‘There was a silence; then he resumed: But I marvel, will the priests now account us heretics and wish to cast us out?'
‘Why should they?’ asked Hubert.
‘Why did they with him? '
‘You have said it yourself before, Robert—only because he bore witness of their evil deeds. And yet,' he added thoughtfully, and with an air of perplexity, ‘the fact remains that the chancellor believes him a heretic-or did believe him so—until yesterday.' He pondered for a while in silence, then he added, ‘and the words came evidently from the depths of his heart, Heretic or no, from this day forth I follow him. Nay, rather, I try to follow Christ, as he did.'
About sunrise Hubert fell asleep. He was awakened by the sound of the church bells ringing for early Mass. It was Sunday morning. Robert was kneeling by his side in prayer, but rose up presently, and said with a smile, ‘They cannot shut him out from the house of God today.'
‘No,' returned Hubert. ‘Today it is we who stand outside. And the door is shut.'
‘Not quite, I think, Master Hubert. To me it seems as if the door was still half open, and the glory shining through.'
Hubert rose. ‘I must go home,' he said.
Robert brought him his own clothing, assisted him to resume it, and constructed a sling for his strained and almost useless arm. Fortunately it was the left one. Hubert shook hands warmly with him, thanked him for his and for Nänchen’s kindness, and went out.
Early as it was, there were many people in the streets already; but they were unusually grave and quiet, and stood mostly in groups talking in low tones together. One such group had gathered near the great door of the cathedral, and were looking at something freshly posted upon it. By this time the bells had ceased, and the service was beginning within. As Hubert approached, intending to go in and hear Mass, a bystander cried out, ‘Here comes a scholar, by good luck. Make way for him, friends. Prithee, sir, be so good as to read for us what is written there.'
Hubert read accordingly, and translated from Latin into German the following words: ‘The Holy Ghost to the believers of Constance, greeting. Mind your own business. As for Us, being occupied elsewhere, we cannot remain any longer in the midst of you. Adieu.’
There was first silence, then a confused murmur amongst the hearers. ‘What does it mean?’ asked one.
‘Its meaning is clear enough,' said another. ‘Where the devil reigns, whose work is murder, God cannot remain.'
‘Take care, friend,' interposed a third; ‘that which is done by process of law is no murder.'
‘No murder!’ cried the former speaker. ‘If you had seen the man, as I did, on his way to death, and heard him pray, you would have sworn he was a devout Catholic and a good Christian.'
‘Yet he was a manifest heretic.'
‘There be many that think otherwise.'
‘Ah, yes; he had friends enough. One of them, no doubt, has put up this scandalous writing in mockery of the Council.'
‘I think not,' said Hubert, as he turned and faced the group. ‘No true friend of the martyr would wish to avenge his cause by taking in vain the most holy name of God, as this writing does.'
‘Very fine words,' said a French priest, who joined them at the moment. ‘Especially from you, Master Hubert Bohan. Oh, I know you well! I studied with you in the Sorbonne, or rather did not study, but played the fool. I have a particular recollection of one notable prank of yours, and it was about a placard. Perhaps you are throwing dust in our eyes, and know more about this one than you care to acknowledge.'
‘I?’ cried Hubert in astonishment; but he did not think it worthwhile to say more, and turned from them to go into the church.
The bystanders took up his quarrel. ‘Hold thy peace, sir priest,' said one of them scornfully. ‘He who suspects another often deserves suspicion himself.'
‘Nay,' interposed a second. ‘Let the priest either prove his accusation, or take it back and apologize like an honest man.'
‘I accuse no one, and I take back nothing,' the priest returned. ‘But I know that this young man, albeit he is secretary to the excellent Chancellor of Paris—’
But Hubert heard no more. He passed on and entered the church, where he knelt down in a quiet place, and was soon absorbed in solemn thoughts of the scene of yesterday, and in earnest prayer that the martyr's God would be his God also, even forever and ever.
On coming forth he walked slowly, and it must be said unwillingly, towards the chancellor's house. As he passed through the Ober Market someone touched him on the shoulder. He turned, and saw one of the town guard, who informed him that he was obliged to put him under arrest in the name of the burgomaster.
‘What have I done?’ Hubert asked in surprise.
‘That I cannot say, sir. I can only say what you are charged with—"Contempt of the Holy Council,"' answered the man, who was very respectful, though firm. You had better come with me quietly. I have a comrade at hand, and these,' just showing a pair of manacles. ‘But I should be very sorry to use them, and shame a scholar like you.' Hubert's cheek flushed crimson.
‘Shame?' he cried. ‘As if the sting had not been taken out of all that, for those who saw what I did yesterday! Put them on as soon as you please.'
But the official only shook his head, and without more words brought Hubert to St. Paul's Tower, in what is now called Hieronymus Street, led him to a cell, and locked him in.
Hubert felt considerable surprise, but no alarm. If ‘contempt of the Council' meant holding the Council and its doings in supreme contempt and detestation, he certainly could not deny the accusation. But then the Council could not read men's hearts; and he had not, as yet, manifested his sentiments by any overt action. Unless, indeed-and here he suddenly remembered the words of the French priest-others might suspect him, as he had done, or pretended to do, of having written that placard. His boyish levities would give color to the suspicion, if, indeed, there was any man now in Constance who happened to know of them, or cared to recall them. If there was, he would be sorry; not because of any punishment which might come upon himself, but because he thought the act of which he was suspected unworthy of the martyr's glory. It was not thus that he ought to be avenged.
He would be more than sorry; he would be stung to the quick, if by any possibility the chancellor could think him guilty. The chancellor! At the thought of him his soul was troubled. Between them a great gulf seemed to have yawned suddenly. The pain and the passion, the hope, the joy, and the triumph of yesterday, had borne Hubert far—much farther than he dreamed at first. It was only on looking back at his old self that he saw, or rather felt, the change that had come over him. How would those keen, deep-seeing eyes—whose approving glance had been hitherto his highest recompense—how would they look upon that change?
It was the strongest love of his life which rose up within him at the question. From his infancy, until he found his brother in Constance, he had known no family ties, no sweet household charities. Only through the chancellor had the shadow of fatherly care and pity been cast over him, to help him to understand the fatherhood of God. He clung to him with equal admiration and affection, at once worshipping him as a disciple and loving him as an attached and grateful son.
He would not own, even to himself, that henceforward he must stand alone—no mere echo of the chancellor's word, no mere reflection of his thought. He preferred to hope, with the ardent hopefulness of youth, that what had moved his own heart so deeply had influenced the chancellor also. How, in fact, could he resist it?
That day, indeed, Hubert could not long continue troubled about anything. The peace into which the martyr had entered seemed to overshadow him. For the first time in his life his heart went forth to God in childlike love and in perfect trust. He knew he was in His hands, and he rested there.
The long solitary hours wore on; but they did not seem to him either long or solitary, he had so much to think of and to remember. Once a warder came to him with food: and more than once he heard—or thought he heard—through the thick prison wall, the voice of a strong man's bitter anguish. He longed to console the sufferer, whoever he might be; perhaps some unhappy man who was sentenced to death. Since lie could do nothing else, he prayed for him, very earnestly, yet not half so earnestly as he would have done had he but known him to be one for whom even then another martyr-crown was preparing, though it was not ready for him yet, nor was he ready for it.
Before Hubert thought it possible the daylight faded, and his cell was in darkness. The two preceding nights he had scarcely slept at all; so now he was glad enough to lay his weary limbs on the straw that had been provided for him, and to sleep in peace until the morning.